beneath the waves
I have no idea how the universe
cleans our shit up after us.
But let’s sing anyway. Let’s sing for now.
Because at some point we’ll have to stop.
It’s a journal of unsatisfactoriness
starting in the dark, feeling
bevelled organicity, its perfect
fonts askew. It must be runtime now.
Was it worse before the flood
or worse before the fire?
Is it alright now we’re in the dark
to feel our way toward eternity?
Or should we take a turn
around the deck
and shut our eyes
and toss quoits overboard?
Could we hear the tiny
splashes when their zeroes
hit the waves? Could we
picture them as they fall
slow through the water that is not us?